


Who Needs Angels Anyway?

by orphan_account



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Well I may seem naive if I cry as you leave / Like I'm just one more tortured heart. / These cracks that I show as I'm watching you go / Aren't tearing me apart. requested by mickey_sixx<br/>Kink: One Night Stand/Emotional Themes<br/>Notes/Warnings: Erm... another not happy fic. Only spoilery for S01E01 of Gossip Girl. Unbeata'd (my bad).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Needs Angels Anyway?

**Title:** Who Needs Angels Anyway?  
 **Author:** [](http://echoing-dream.livejournal.com/profile)[**echoing_dream**](http://echoing-dream.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom:** Gossip Girl  
 **Pairing/character:** Chuck/Nate  
 **Length:** ~3,000  
 **Rating:** FRAO/NC17  
 **Prompt:** _Well I may seem naive if I cry as you leave / Like I'm just one more tortured heart. / These cracks that I show as I'm watching you go / Aren't tearing me apart._ requested by [](http://mickey-sixx.livejournal.com/profile)[**mickey_sixx**](http://mickey-sixx.livejournal.com/)  
 **Kink:** One Night Stand/Emotional Themes  
 **Notes/Warnings:** Erm... another not happy fic. Only spoilery for S01E01 of Gossip Girl. Unbeata'd (my bad).

Nathaniel makes everything look effortless. Chuck knows this because he watches, sees every casual flicker of Nate’s elegant hands, the strong lines of his shoulders as he strides down hallways, graceful feet as he twirls Blair around another dance-floor, dashing and charming, the white knight to Chuck’s black prince. Even high and sprawled on Chuck’s couch, white dress shirt wrinkled and tugged half-open, there’s something untouchable about Nate.

The smell of sweet smoke lingers in the air, and Chuck can’t look away from the long line of Nate’s throat as his friend leans his head back over the arm of the sofa, gazes up with eyes that are red-rimmed with long-lost tears. Chuck turns the girls away, pushing them gently back out of the door with barely a thought, deaf to their soft sounds of disappointment, their louder suggestions. Even with the swirl of whiskey and smoke through his veins, Nate manages to make his movements look languid as he tracks Chuck’s progress to the couch, a quick stop at the bar to grab a tumbler and a second bottle of Scotch. He sits down, a little too close, stares at Nate for longer than he ought to before he turns away to set the glass down, fills it almost to the brim with the amber liquid.

He refills Nate’s glass on reflex, lifts it carefully and presses it into his best friend’s slightly unsteady hand, watches some of the contents spill down Nate’s wrist and tries not to stare too hard when Nate transfers the glass into his other hand and laps at the rivulets of whiskey with his slick pink tongue. Chuck’s dreamed about having that tongue in his mouth more times than he cares to remember, imagined Nate crawling all over him, teasing, almost innocent licks before he swallows him down with the practice of a cheap whore. He forces the pictures away before they start to show on his face.

“You’re a mess, Nathaniel,” he says, managing to sound somewhere between concerned and condescending, taking a large gulp from his own glass as Nate makes a tiny broken sound and collapses back against the arm of the couch, one knee pressed tight up against Chuck’s thigh.

“I did something stupid,” he confesses, and Chuck rests a hand on his knee, shifts minutely closer on the couch to rest his head against the cushions, watching Nate sink into the upholstery. Chuck’s selfish side loves it when Nate is like this, all loose and pliable, drunk enough to spill all the secrets he thinks he hides so well; the other side of him, the part he buries far away from the outside world, hates to see the only person he truly cares about hurting so much. He soothes a hand over Nate’s knee and watches Nate’s eyes fall resignedly closed.

“I slept with Serena,” Nate whispers, voice soft and wavering. Chuck swallows more of his whiskey, feels the burn slide down his throat as he blinks away the pictures. He had a perfect vantage point on the balcony, and the picture of Nate falling out of his clean white shirt – the same white shirt that’s now far less white and considerably more crumpled – has haunted him in the days since. He now has a mental catalogue of the noises Nate makes when he kisses (soft, breathy moans and quiet little wet noises, artless and desperate), the way Nate’s fingers skittered restlessly over Serena’s shoulders (her own red-painted nails leaving long pink marks down Nate’s own back), the perfect tension in Nate’s muscles as he came (and Chuck was impressed with how long he held out, all things considered).

Chuck keeps on drinking, forces himself to meet Nate’s gaze as blue eyes open again, dark with hurt.

“And now she’s gone.” Nate sighs like the weight of the world has settled even harder on his shoulders, drinking half the whiskey in one long, smooth swallow. Chuck watches the muscles in his throat, follows the line down Nathaniel’s smooth chest where his shirt falls open, faint pink lines still visible on his pecs.

Serena is destructive in a way that Chuck admires, too passionate, too flighty, waltzing through life in a haze of blonde hair and big blue eyes. Nate’s always been fixated on her, Chuck’s seen the way his eyes linger on her face, the way he hangs on her every word like some desperate puppy. Blair though it was pathetic, jealous and uncomprehending, and only Chuck noticed the depth of Nate’s infatuation, the desire that burned almost as deeply as Chuck’s own. The two of them are too perfect for him to hold onto, moving through life with a flawless grace that Chuck is too broken even to copy, his own faults and cracks running too deep under his skin.

“I don’t know what to do.” Nate is quiet now, introspective even as he voices his thoughts aloud; one leg thrown over Chuck’s splayed legs as he pushes himself closer to upright, half-empty glass clutched tight in both hands. He wants to chase her, Chuck can see it in his eyes, the way Nate’s leg twitches as Chuck lays his hand on it once more, feels the living warmth of Nate under his palm; he hardly ever gets to touch.

“Let her go,” he says, aiming for a throw-away line, but the expression on Nate’s face changes, becomes searching as he scans Chuck’s face, eyes alert as they flick down to where his fingers curl around the muscle of Nate’s calf. A small voice in the back of Chuck’s mind tells him to pull his hand away, to put some distance between himself and his best friend before either of them make a decision they’re going to regret.

But it’s too late. Nate moves faster than he ought to be capable of, glass tumbling to the floor as he crawls across the sofa and into Chuck’s lap, pressing his mouth determinedly to Chuck’s. It’s messy and uncoordinated, Nate’s lips too hard against his own, and Chuck scrabbles to set his own glass down, to catch hold of Nate’s shoulders and hold him still while his brain clicks in.

“Nate?” His own voice wavers, and Nate just groans softly, pressing hard against the restraining hands so he can capture Chuck’s mouth again, slower this time, but no less desperate, pouring all his need and loneliness into the press of his lips, insistent flicker of tongue. Chuck’s never been the good guy, and Nate is everything he’s ever wanted, warm and desperate in his lap, offering himself on a plate. He curls his fingers around Nate’s shoulders, drawing him in and easing Nate’s mouth open with his tongue, slick slide inside Nate’s mouth as he licks away at the sticky-sweetness until he finds something that is pure Nate.

In his fantasies (which are many and varied), he gets to lay Nate out on his clean white sheets or press him up against the mirrored wall of the elevator (he likes that one, getting to watch every expression that slides over Nate’s face as Chuck fucks him, quick and dirty). The real Nate is far more enthusiastic, his hands scrabbling ineffectually at Chuck’s clothes, tongue stroking determinedly over Chuck’s own. He’s a good kisser, as Chuck knew he would be, but it’s the desperation that gets to Chuck as he pushes at Nate, presses him down on the couch so he can crawl on top of him, pin him against the cushions and devour his perfect mouth.

Nate’s hands find their way under his clothes more by trial and error than any sort of coordination, and his hands skitter just as restlessly over Chuck’s back, needy, messy noises escaping Nate’s mouth as Chuck puts everything into his kisses, guiding and taking and giving for once. It’s better than even his most detailed fantasies and Chuck knows that one taste of Nate is never going to be enough, he’s too addictive, giving everything up so sweetly and with such a desperate fire.

“Please,” Nate murmurs, and Chuck pulls away from his mouth, kisses down the smooth line of his jaw just to feel Nate arch underneath him. “Please, Chuck.”

“What is it, baby?” He bites at Nate’s neck, careful enough that the mark will fade by morning, but letting Nate feel his teeth, suckling on the strong pulse that races under Nate’s skin.

“Fuck me. I want you to.”

Chuck pulls back, properly this time, somehow managing to climb back up to his knees, a hand on Nate’s chest to keep him there. Everything he wants is laid out on his sofa, Nate managing to look perfect despite his swollen-pout and the mess of his hair where Chuck’s fingers have combed through it again and again. If he has this, there’s no going back. Nothing will ever be enough for him again. He’s not stupid enough to think that Nate will stay.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he murmurs, but he can’t quite pull himself away. Nate’s fingers are gentle as they curl around his own, gently lifting Chuck’s palm from his chest and sitting up slowly. He cups the back of Chuck’s neck with his free hand, drawing him close and holding his gaze for longer than is safe before he closes his eyes and leans in again, kiss gentle and devastating. Chuck has never been able to deny Nate anything, and he opens under the soft assault, fingers still wound around Nate’s as he lets himself sink into it.

“OK,” he whispers, drawing Nate’s tongue into his own mouth and sucking on it, marvelling at the trust Nate has in him, the unsteady but determined slide of Nate’s hands under his shirt again. “OK,” as he pulls his mouth away, starts the complex process of untangling himself, pausing to kiss away the confused whine, “but we do this my way.”

***

Chuck strips the covers off his bed, throws the extra pillows on the floor and almost manages to hide his smirk as Nate gets tangled in his clothes, illusion of grace and elegance shattered for half a second while Nate sits down, slightly bemused, pants caught somewhere below his knees. It takes another couple of minutes for Nate to remember how buttons work, and Chuck is grateful for the time to breathe, stripping himself rather more quickly.

Nate collides with him just as he manages to rid himself of his boxers, and there’s a momentary stumble before Chuck manages to get them both onto the bed, wanting to touch Nate everywhere at once, but settling for running his hands down Nate’s shoulder-blades, easing him over onto his back. He kisses down Nate’s chest, pausing to lick over a tightly-pebbled nipple, eliciting a bitten-off groan as Nate’s fingers slide into his hair, keeping his face pressed there.

He takes his time, dragging beautiful noises out of Nate that reverberate around the room as he tastes Nate everywhere, sucking hard whenever Nate whines and lapping with the barest pressure when Nate makes a soft whimpering-sound in the back of his throat. Nate’s hands card through his hair, content to let Chuck guide and play as he settles into the pillows, and Chuck takes a moment to drink in the picture of Nate all relaxed and slightly dishevelled on his bed.

“What?” Nate asks, smiling up at him, and Chuck bends to taste that too, licking at the corners of Nate’s mouth. If he only gets this once, he’s going to take everything he wants from it.

Dragging lube and condoms from his drawer feels incredibly surreal, and Chuck drops them onto the bed at Nate’s hip, bites back the words ‘are you sure’ as he leans in again to capture Nate’s mouth with his own.

“Turn over,” he says instead, barely giving Nate enough room to move as he kisses over his shoulders and down the back of his neck. Nate shivers, pressing up into Chuck’s mouth, and Chuck follows the line of his spine with his tongue. He runs his hands over the smooth globes of Nate’s ass, muscle toned from the runs Nate takes every morning, easing Nate’s strong thighs far enough apart for Chuck to lie between them.

Nate’s breathing is rapid and nervous, and Chuck slides gentle hands up his back, easing some of the tension out of the muscles there. The snick of the lube-cap is loud in the sudden quiet of the room, and Chuck presses a wet kiss to small of Nate’s back just to make him squirm. Nate shudders again when Chuck spreads his ass with one hand, liberally drizzling lube over his asshole until it drips down onto the sheets. He circles his finger slowly, giving Nate just enough time to relax back down into the pillows before slowly pressing inwards, tight ring of muscle gradually giving way.

It takes a while for Nate to learn to relax, and Chuck drops onto one elbow, working his finger in and out slowly until Nate is sufficiently stretched to add another finger.

“Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs, and Nate moans brokenly, squirming a little as Chuck adds the second finger.

“Mmph, feels…” Nate drags the word out as if he’s trying to find a way to describe the slightly uncomfortable stretch, “kind of-” he ends in a whine, hips arching off the bed as Chuck deliberately rubs the pads of his fingers over Nate’s prostate. “God.” Nate’s forehead drops down to the pillows, hips pressing back into Chuck’s fingers, trying to keep the pressure there even as Chuck withdraws, pressing in twice as slow as before.

“Do that again,” Nate begs, whimpering again when Chuck teases him with the lightest of touches, twisting his fingers as he withdraws again. Nate is writhing on Chuck’s fingers, voice raw and needy little sounds tumbling uncensored from his bitten lips. It’s almost too much for Chuck to bear. It takes all his force of will not to rub his aching cock against the sheets, concentrating on keeping his fingers away from Nate’s prostate, making Nate whine in protest.

“Please, Chuck.” His voice is desperate and broken, pressing urgently into Chuck’s fingers, and Chuck is merciful because he rubs over that spot again and again, counting every desperate pant as Nate’s ass rises up off the bed, hips shifting in tiny circles as though the pressure is too much. “Fuck!” he cries out when Chuck adds another finger, and Chuck somehow has the presence of mind to curl his fingers around the base of Nate’s cock, squeezing tight to keep Nate’s orgasm at bay.

Chuck drags his fingers slowly from Nate’s body, fumbling with the condom as it slips through his fingers until Nate tugs it away and tears it open himself. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek as Nate rolls the condom onto him, slipping the first time and flushing high in his cheeks.

“Come here.” There will be bruises on Nate’s hips come the morning, and Chuck takes a selfish pleasure in knowing it as he drags Nate up onto his knees, positioning him on his lap and holding him there for a moment, stroking more lube than is strictly necessary over his cock. “Slowly, baby,” he whispers, tugging down just a little as he kisses the back of Nate’s neck, tasting salt at his hairline.

He watches them in the mirror over the bar, drinking in the tense lines of Nate’s face as he sinks down slowly, taking every inch of Chuck’s cock, perfectly white teeth biting down hard into his lower lip. His mouth falls open when he’s finally seated, thighs pressed to Chuck’s own, and Chuck rests his head on Nate’s shoulder for a second, mustering the control not to come right there and then.

They’re a perfect picture in the mirror, Nate’s pale perfection littered with pink marks, hair mussed by Chuck’s own hands and his lips bitten red and open. Chuck wishes he had Blair’s full length mirrors at the end of the bed so he could see where his cock is buried deep inside Nate, he wants to burn the image into his mind so he can have it on the lonely hours when everyone leaves him and the girls don’t come close to touching the void inside him.

When Nate shifts his hips experimentally, Chuck groans loud and raggedly, hands falling to Nate’s hips again, urging him up and tugging him back down again until they find their rhythm, prefect heat and tightness dragging Chuck closer and closer to the edge. Nate makes these beautiful, half-broken noises, and Chuck pulls one hand away to wrap it around his cock, stroking hard and fast as he feels his own orgasm pushing insistently at the base of his spine.

Nate spills everywhere, shuddering and shaking in Chuck’s lap, body tensing and releasing, perfect squeeze around Chuck’s cock, and his own hips jerk quickly, forcing himself to watch Nate’s face in the mirror until his own orgasm overwhelms him and he buries his face in Nate’s shoulder to ride it out.

He’s reluctant to untangle them, but Nate is too heavy to fall asleep on top of him, and Chuck is rough with him again to get them both lying back on the sheets, one leg thrown high over Nathaniel’s thigh, everything else discarded somewhere as they succumb to sleep. He matches his breathing to Nate’s as they drift, breathes in the smell of them heavy on the air.

***

It’s no surprise that the bed is cold when Chuck wakes in the morning. Nate’s shirt and pants still lie in a crumpled pile by the sofa, the spare T-shirt and sweats gone from their usual place in the corner of Chuck’s room. It’s just like every other morning and Chuck stretches out, settles himself more comfortably in the sheets that suddenly feel sticky and stiff in places, all together rather disgusting.

He closes his eyes to it all, pushes away the pictures of long blonde hair and perfect red nails scratching over perfect shoulders and replaces them instead with the look on Nate’s face as he came with Chuck’s cock buried in his ass. The sounds are achingly loud in Chuck’s ears, and he turns his face into the pillows, feeling Nate’s hips under his fingers.

Nate will come back to Chuck, fixed and smiling again, someone else’s lipstick smeared on his collar, and Chuck will tease him about it, drag him to some party somewhere where the alcohol is expensive and the girls are willing. But under Nate’s perfectly pressed designer pants, he’ll wear bruises in the shape of Chuck’s fingertips for weeks.

They too will fade eventually though, and Chuck will be left once more wanting the one thing he can never have. He refuses to give room to the hope that someday, somehow, Nate might just come back to him.

FIN


End file.
